


Everything he asks for

by TailorFox



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackmail, Bottom Boris, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-22 23:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20000440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TailorFox/pseuds/TailorFox
Summary: In order to obtain the supplies they need, Boris suggests a bargain to Charkov. The KGB-man sees it as an opportunity to satisfy his evilest urges. Too late to step back, Boris makes his best to hide these littles arrangements but soon, Valery becomes suspicious.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an extremely dark one shot, inspired by a prompt on hbo_chernobyl_kinkmeme. Boris managed to give Valery everything he asked for. But how Valery would react if he learned that Boris had to be abused, prostituted or humiliated by some party men to provide him the supplies? 
> 
> Or, Valery needs lunar rovers. Boris needs Charkov’s help to obtain those robots. Unfortunately, Charkov is definitely a bastard, hungry for power. 
> 
> This has obviously nothing to do with the real persons. Please, read the warnings before reading. Also, this is unbeta'ed.  
> I'll probably write a second chapter if I find the time.

It’s ringing through his ears. You don’t deserve him, had said Khomyuk a few days ago, all pretentious and haughty. Oh, only if she knew better, thinks Boris. It would wipe her sufficient grin off her face. It’d be good.

Still, he is definitely relieved that she knows nothing of those arrangements. He wouldn’t be able to endure any amount of pity from that woman. Worst, he can’t imagine how Valery would react if he’d find out the truth. He would be disgusted, of course. Shameful, and upset. He would disapprove—

A bucket of icy water is thrown over him, leaving him shivering in nothing but his underwear. Nails scratch his skin, leaving a red streak on his upper back. It hurts like hell. It always did, but his body haven’t even had the time to heal from their previous session this time. The man grabs a fistful of his hair, yanks his head back.   
  
Charkov lowers his head, approaching his lips from Boris’ left ear.   
\- Are you kidding me? Have you any idea of the price of lunar rovers?

Boris nods. Fear pools in his stomach. He tastes the bile rise in his throat.   
\- I know someone who could provide you what you need.

A knee against his spine, he makes him arched his back even more, putting him finally on his fours. Charkov strokes his back from his shoulders all the way down to his buttocks, now exposed.   
\- I can get you in contact with him. If only—

He snaps his fingers toward one of the guards— And Boris understands what is coming next.

Chakov’s men are mercenary- Devoted, obedient ones. As long as he provides them with money, power, amnesty for old crimes. This one looks young, easily half of his age. Dark-haired, square jaws and lifeless black eyes.

His belt falls on the ground, a metallic sound echoing through the room. Rough hands grab his hips, then Boris feels spit hits his skin.

Charkov sits on a chair, legs crossed, his unblinking eyes staring at him. The soldier moans with a hoarse voice; Boris gasps from the pain, knees scraping the concrete floor.   
\- Does it hurt? Charkov asks, lips twitching in a smile.   
\- Barely, he pants out.  
\- Have you already tried it with your precious friend ?, he chuckles. I was astonished to learn you were the type.  
\- We're not.  
\- If you say so, he says, rolling his eyes, gesturing his man to act harder.

The stretching is uncomfortable, the burning is excruciating. Boris begins to feel dizzy, but the chairman won’t leave him alone. He cups his chin, meeting those blue pleading eyes. Boris breaths heavy:  
\- What do you want from me?   
\- Beg. Beg for whatever you want.

He strokes his hair, an unexpectedly soft gesture in comparison with the hard thrusts Boris is taking. Charkov insists, aroused by his dominance over him.   
\- Beg for him to stop, for more supplies, for lunar rovers—   
  
Boris brings his gaze back to him, his eyes full of pure hate. He swears to kill him someday. But for now, he needs his network. Broken, Boris gives up his resistance, much to Charkhov’s delight. 

A thin voice escapes with his breath:   
\- We need it. Please.

The next minutes are a bit of a blur. He suddenly feels a kick in the ribs which made him regain full consciousness. Boris coughs, lying on his side, his underwear around his scraped knees. Shame hits him; he drags himself toward his clothes.

The young man has disappeared, leaving the two of them alone. Charkov comes close, towering him with satisfaction. Sore, Boris sits up slowly.   
\- Power has nothing to do with rank, the KGB official says, slapping the back of the taller man’s hand.

He buttons Boris’ shirt himself with an unbearable slowness. He then rises his hand to the vice-chairman’s face, slipping his thumb in his mouth, touching his tongue until he drools.   
\- It has all to do with taking advantages of situations. And files to use against the right persons. 

He swipes his finger on Boris’ untied tie and stands up, smoothing his suit.

\- You’ll have it. Lunar rovers. Make the best use of it, he says, impassive. You’d better make yourself presentable. We’ll be having a reunion in forty minutes. Oh- Our dear professor will be there, I heard.

It is only when the door closes that Boris’ hands begin to shake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be two, or three short chapters. There is nothing graphic in this one, but abuse is implied.

Surrounded by those grey-haired austere Party men, Valery is growing more tense minute by minute. The chair beside him is empty, Boris being late for more than fifteen minutes. Gorbachev is patiently waiting, hands crossed under his chin while his henchmen are idly scribbling on their files. Then, there’s Charkov, sitting straight, his emotionless eyes locked on him with a frightful intensity.

Legasov lowers his head, straightening his trousers with sweaty palms. As the clock’s ticks six PM, Boris appears, his face unreadable. All eyes follow him as he reaches his place while apologizing with his usual bossy tone.

He took a brief glance towards the scientist as he sits. The room then fills with noisy coughs, papers rustling and Gorbachev’s monotone voice. Yet, something feels wrong to Valery. Boris looked exhausted, restless. He’s not the only one who notices it—Charkov does, judging from the amused stare he gives him.

His body stiffen even more. Something nasty is coming down.

\--

The meeting disperses late at night; they’re meant to go back to Prypiat the next morning.   
\- If we can manage it well, we’ll have three hours of sleep, Valery calculates, eyes on his watch.

Boris continues walking, silent. Valery suddenly picks up the pace, rejoining him.   
\- Boris—Is everything alright? 

The older man stops. The rough, damp fabric of his trousers are sticking to his oozing knees, constant reminder of what happened earlier in the day. _As if he needed a reminder_ , he thought.

\- I’m having a walk.   
\- To the hotel? Valery asks, surprised.

Boris doesn’t even bother to answer and goes left, in the direction of the closest park.  
  
Something is wrong, Valery understands. He can nearly smell it. Boris’ neck is glowing from sweat and he’s walking with a limp. A slight one, almost invisible one, but Valery knows better. Those careful steps are nothing like the bull’s gait he’s used to.

Cancer is the first thing he thinks of. He must have gone to see a doctor, today, in Moscow. It would explain Boris being late, and the exhaustion. 

Too tired to talk, they walk for half an hour. The air is cold, and he jumps of fear once or twice when some night owl flies over his head. Bitter, Valery regrets the missed opportunity to take a cab, but there is no way he would let him alone. When they finally make it to the hotel, Boris seems even paler.   
\- Have- Er- A good night, Valery stammers, rubbing his eyes.   
\- Sleep well, Valera.

Boris closes the door slowly, turning his back on it. He inhales deeply, emptying and filling his lungs until he feels dizzy. Nobody suspects what happened. Everything is alright.

His joints ache. Men of his age are not meant to spend this much time on their knees. _Men don’t dishonor themselves this way,_ he thinks. Shower isn’t even enough to ease the pain, much less to wipe out the ghost sensation of hands grabbing him. 

Scratching his ribs, Boris groans in pain; a bruise was forming on his right side. It could have been worse, he says to himself, remembering the first time he chose to bargain with Charkov. Freeing Khomyuk has already cost him a heavy price; but she didn’t deserve to rot in a cell and Valery had made it clear: they needed her.

The man was pure evil. Sadist, pernicious little man who knows the right persons, or more likely, what those right persons have done wrong. Half of these files concern sex, he knows. Proofs of adultery, pregnant mistresses or twisted fantasies caught on tapes. And this is the trap: Boris isn’t sure that Charkov didn’t capture their personal encounters. After all, he passed out.

Unable to sleep, he lays down on the bed, batting to keep his eyes open. The scenes reenact in his mind whenever he shut them, getting him nauseous. _You choose to do it_ , he thinks, pressing his palm to his belly, but it’s not enough to save him from throwing up.

\- Boris?   
  
Boris winces, arms around the faience toilet bowl. He hears steps; Valery came into the room.   
\- Can’t you knock for god sake?

He retches again and leans forward, his bruised ribs battered by the contractions of his stomach. He swipes his mouth clean, turning his head to look at the scientist who rises an eyebrow.   
\- We never knock.

Valery gently pats his shoulder, worried:   
\- Something is wrong, isn’t it?   
  
He stared into Boris’ red, watery eyes. The older man nods. He wants Valery to leave, but at the same time, the caring, soft tone of his comrade’s voice soothes him.   
\- I’ve got some health issues. There is nothing surprising in that, he lies, moving to sit down on the bathroom rug.

The pain between his buttocks grows worse. He bled, he remembers.   
  
\- What's the deal ? Cancer, anemia ?  
\- I don't want to talk about it. Go back to sleep, Valery.

Valery sits crossed-legged on the floor and shows him his watch.   
\- We’re leaving in forty minutes.

They rest their head against the wall, facing each other in silence while Boris recovers, breathing loudly. A sharp noise tells him Valery is lighting a cigarette. Smoke rises above them while the younger man scrutinizes him.   
\- I’ve never seen you without a shirt before.

Boris lowers his eyes on himself: fortunately, he’s wearing an undershirt covering his bruised ribs, and trousers to hide his wounded knees. Nevertheless, he feels exposed, on the defensive.   
\- You’re less frightening without your black austere coat.

Boris crosses his arms to hide his chest, but gives him a faint, amused smile.


End file.
